


You, I, and the Secrets in the Sky

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Friends, High School, M/M, Military, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Armin was 16 when his grandfather, a military strategist, is relocated to a base on the coast of Italy. He knows no one and nothing about this new territory as he is uprooted from his old life and planted into a new one.In the midst of his loneliness, he meets Eren Yeager and Mikasa Ackerman, who navigate him through the secrets of friendship, first love, the heartbreak that comes with it, and the sky.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Kudos: 19





	You, I, and the Secrets in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic! more at the end, happy reading :)

As he stepped onto the ground- the first Italian soil his feet had ever touched- Armin Arlert willed the ground to swallow him completely, enveloping his bones, eyes, brain, and all the thoughts of which it screamed. But his shoes touched dirt and, much to his disappointment, remained above ground. What a shame.

“Armin!”, a rusted voice jolted him from his thoughts. He looked over to see his grandfather had left the boat’s dock completely, and was starting to drown in the flooding crowds. Armin ran, his bag hitting his legs in a pitter-patter rhythm, to his grandfather’s side.

“Sorry,” he said, taking his grandfather's hand only to drop it a moment later once he spared it some thought. He was too old for such things. He looked around.

The sky and sea shared a greyish color, a mournful quality, much different than the cartoonish blue he’d seen in pictures. He wasn’t disappointed, though. He was well suited for grey. Most of the buildings were fisherman-style with wood that looked like it’d started to fade before Armin was born. American flags were strung on nearly every door. They seemed to be as essential to the buildings as the doors themselves. What struck him, as he and his grandfather advanced away from the dock and into the streets, was the slow, moseying stream of people. The town seemed not quite awake, or perhaps the first few moments of awakeness on a Sunday morning, eyes crusted with sleep. Armin rubbed his eyes just thinking about it.

He looked over to see his grandfather talk to a cab driver and walked over. Once they were huddled in the tightness of a backseat (it smelled of cigarettes and something pickled) his grandfather tried to make small talk with the driver, but earned mostly grunts in response. Armin leaned on the thick glass but his eyes flickered to the car’s carpet and he allowed his thoughts to meander aimlessly. He thought of the school which he would have to attend and the kids who would occupy it.

When his grandfather first informed him that they’d be forced to move, he had refused to eat in protest- he camped in his room, perched at the desk under his loft bed, scratching angry words in his journal. But then he smelt his grandfather cooking hot soup just the way his mother used to, and as he looked at the red, angry words on the paper, he felt his anger melt defeatedly under a glaze of shame. At first he thought perhaps the new environment might fill his dreams of exploration. His childhood was filled to the brim with daydreams of foreign spaces and people who he might write about and share with the world. He’d wonder if there was a single squarefoot left of this pitiful planet that had never been grasped by the touch of another human. He supposed it was unlikely, but stored the dream in a back pocket, only to be visited during the latest of nights or the bleakest of classes. Still, he treasured the idea of untouched territory, of things his eyes would be the first to spill over. When he heard his grandfather had been relocated to a base in Italy, he became infatuated with visions of the domed ceilings and nude statues his books had fabricated, only to be informed they’d be moving to a coastal town- an American embassy- with a population that could fit comfortably in a high school football stadium, and so the romance of Italy was butchered in poor Armin’s mind.

His eyes stayed trained to the ground until the cab lulled to a halt and his grandfather shuffled around his pockets for cash. The street they pulled into was called Keswick. The air was sticky as he opened the cab door, and he quickly missed the coolness of the car.

_____

Their house was smaller than their old one. It had an unfriendly quality, all stiff and beige, and gave Armin the uncanny feeling of being in a hotel. There wasn’t a master suite, only two bedrooms which were conjoined by a single bathroom. Armin’s room had a sheetless bed, an empty dresser, and a desk which faltered when he shifted his weight on it. Unpacking was a laborless task, he hardly owned enough clothes to fill all the drawers and ended up using the space to store the extra books which wouldn’t fit on his desk. He sat on his naked bed, cradling his copy of Watership Down. How odd it was to see his fine little things; his books and pens and shoes, in this strange room with wall-to-wall carpet that made his feet itch. He supposed he’d have to wear socks in the house.

His room had one window, which revealed a house identical to the rest on the block. The stuffiness of the room began to cling to Armin’s skin, so he moved to crank the glass open. Outside, there was a girl who was hanging laundry on a wire. Armin instinctively moved behind his wall, out of view, in fear he might be seen and accused of staring. He peeked out, cautiously this time. The girl had choppy black hair and shouted in English towards her own home. He watched her run beneath the line of shade, and the bluish undertone of her hair vanished into pure black as it left the sun. She was pretty enough, he decided, but moved with something boyish in her stride. She stayed under the shade of a tree for a while, and Armin decided he had been watching for too long.

That night, eating boxed pasta and coke with his grandfather as the wet heat of summer blanketed their walls, they sat in silence. The song of cicadas filtered through opened windows and there was an unnamable tension which was felt by all but spoken by none.

_____

Before he had even started school, Armin decided that his goal was to wade through his two last years of highschool as unremarkably as possible. He would float through the hallways of school unnoticed by his peers as they clumped together in social groups, often piling on one another in the hall, spitting out crewd jokes and naughty words. He wasn’t lonely, he didn’t wonder what it was they whispered in each other's ears when one would erupt into a fit of stifled laughter, or about the games they played in the corridors, shoving each other into lockers and snatching each other's books. When he rode his bike to the library on Friday nights, he stopped in front of the houses that blared popular music and had a stream of kids coming in and out, red cups in hand, he certainly didn’t feel a metallic pull, drawing him towards the groups of laughing people. No, he wasn’t lonely, or at least that’s what he told himself.

Unremarkable, at least for Amin, excluded his work ethic. He still performed higher than the other students, receiving the best marks in his grade. He often saw his teachers eyeing him in class, willing him to speak or participate in a way that resembled his quality of work. Who was the quiet boy who’s essays were of a quality even the teachers couldn’t match? The boy who never spoke, and spent his classes with his arms folded across his desk, gazing out the window, with a look nothing short of discontentment in his eyes?

“Mr. Arlert,” Armin’s eyes shot up at the sound of his name. Class had ended and he was carefully putting his books back into his bag. He sighed when he realized the teacher was talking to him. It was last quarter and he wanted to return to the serenity of his wobbly room. It was Mr. Smith who had called him over. Armin liked him well enough, though sometimes he thought his passions for history and his inherent talents for teaching it were undeserved by Armin’s peers, who he assumed by their disinterest, only took the class to look at Mr. Smith He walked over to the teacher’s desk.

“Yes, sir?” Armin said boredly. Might as well get this over with as painless as possible, he thought.

“Those textbooks must be heavy. You know you’re the only student who uses the physical books.” Yes, Armin had quickly noticed he was the only student who used real textbooks. He was also the only student who took the time to annotate them. He realized it was perhaps counterproductive to his agenda of becoming a completely invisible, unremarkable force. He didn’t care.

“I just prefer them sir.”

“The digital copies might be more forgiving on your back.”

“Sir, was there a reason you called me to stay after class?”

“Ah, forgive me. I was only trying to make smalltalk.” Armin nodded in response, and Mr. Smith folded his hands across his desk and peered down at them. He rubbed his knuckles tiredly.

“I’m sure you’re aware that the quality of your work exceeds that of any of your peers,” Mr. Smith started.

“Thank you” Armin started.

“Hold on, Mr. Arlert. Your work is impressive, you convey a deep understanding of the class’s material and think critically of the content. But you don’t participate.”

Ah, there it was, Armin thought. He swallowed.

“The class could use your mind. Not only that, speaking up might do you some good,” Mr. Smith continued, “I say this only because I want to see you thrive.”

“Of course,” Armin replied.

“I’m glad we agree. Now, I don’t want to stress you. But I will be forced to dock your participation grade if I don’t see more efforts being made.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Mr. Smith stood from his chair, forcing Armin’s head to tilt upwards in order to maintain eye contact. It made Armin feel small. He wondered if that was Mr. Smith’s intention. But looking at his formal smile which contained something paternal, Armin decided it wasn’t.

“You’re dismissed, Armin. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, sir. You as well.” Armin said.

As he made his way to exit, with one hand on the door, he heard Mr. Smith from behind him.

“And Armin,” he said, “No need to call me sir.”

“Yes-” Armin started, thinking of a word to substitute it. When he couldn’t, he abandoned the sentence and walked out the door.

_____

Armin sat, once again, in Mr. Smith’s class. There was a discussion going on, but Armin couldn’t be bothered to lend more than half his attention to the cause. He listened idly out of one ear.

“Alright, I get what Rousseau is trying to say. But sometimes people are just, y’know, bad, and you can’t blame it on like, society or whatever.”, a kid from the front of the class piped up. Armin rolled his eyes.

“An interesting thought. Thank you, Mr. Kirstein.”, Mr. Smith replied with a smile. His mouth strained across his face, looking almost slightly pained but masking it with friendliness. Armin almost felt sorry for him.

“Exactly,” said a girl from behind Armin, “People are bad sometimes, so the government needs to like, make rules to control those people. It's basic law and order. Like, the fundamentals of society.” Armin rolled his eyes again. At this rate, they were starting to hurt.

Armin heard a snort from somewhere next to him. He looked over his shoulder and was met with the stare of a boy sitting a few seats away. He was leaning against the back of his chair, with his feet pushing the first two legs off the ground. Armin had heard of students getting injured, concussed even, from sitting like that. He tssked to himself.

The boy had choppy hair and something dark in his eyes, and there was something intrinsically dirty about him. He had harsh eyebrows that rested above startling, untamed eyes. They flickered towards Armin, paired with the slightest of smiles. The look was mixed with something short of a grimace, and seemed to be saying,

“Fucking idiots”

Armin raised his eyebrows but smiled back at him all the same. There was something about him that Armin liked. Something in the unhinged, crazed look of the boy’s nature made Armin want to capture it, hold it between his fingers and thumb. Perhaps he’d like to squash it beneath his shoe.

“Mr. Jaeger?” started Mr. Smith, his eyes flickering over to the boy, “Is there something you’d like to say? I’m sure the class is eager to hear your- ah- contributions.” He gestured to the rows of students paralleling him. The boys stared away from Armin and back towards the front of the classroom, where Mr. Smith stood impatiently tapping his foot.

“No, sir”

“Ah,” said Mr. Smith, “Any matter, I’m sure Hobbes would agree with you, Ms. Blouse.” To this, the brown haired girl grinned proudly at the prospect of praise.

When class ended, Armin strayed afterwards to fit his books into his bags, but also to watch as the boy leapt from his seat and left the class as soon as the bell began its chime.

_____

The first weeks of October were something of a dream, days bled together unreliably and merged into each other like dominoes on a slant. The days of the week became irrelevant (much like they do during summer breaks as a child, when there was no school to regulate any confinement of school or scheduling) with the rare piercings (the occasional fight at school, which Armin always was witness to but never involved, or the rare bad grade) of occurrence which would snap Armin violently back into his linear timeline, reminding him of his growing time at the base, until he would begin to lose himself in the habit and isolation once again.

Riding his bike to the librairies was something he’d taken up, until it became such a common occurrence that he felt guilty acknowledging it as anything but a habit, a minor addiction. His legs, always so weak and slim before, built up what they could in muscle, and he grew a fondness for feeling the wind grasp around his arms as he rode. He stepped past the threshold of the library with his books tucked away securely in the crook of his arm, nodding to the librarian. She knew him now, which at first embarrassed Armin (what did that say about him, he wondered, that the librarian knew him?) but soon melted into a comforting presence whenever he entered the building.

He placed the books on the counter delicately enough so they wouldn’t make a sound. Not that he necessarily needed to be quiet, the building was a few staglers short from empty, but nonetheless he placed them down with the delicacy of a glass which might crack under the slightest of pressure.

“I’d like to return these,” he said, “I know they’re overdue. I couldn’t find the time to finish them earlier in the week.” The librarian looked up at him over the curve of her glasses, tipping them downwards with the push of her finger.

“Hm. Your school account will be fined. Return them as late as you please if you’re okay with the charges.” She replied.

“Uh. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’d hope so. This ones in high demand,” she said, motioning to the book resting at the bottom of the lot. Armin found that hard to believe. He wasn’t sure what else there was to be said, so he muttered a quick apology before wandering towards the shelves.

He didn’t have a book in mind, he never did, but he usually just skimmed the books until one caught his interest. As he walked, he briefly noticed a head of dark hair, which, when he turned his head to see better, belonged to the girl he knew to live next door. He realized, firstly, that without the separation of many feet and a glass window between them, that the girl was quite a bit taller than he was. He noticed, secondly, that in her stride held the regality of someone of great importance, but also the agile of someone who didn’t quite belong in a school. Armin bared this in mind as he approached the area in which she stood staring at the books. He chose to stand in the patch of floor next to her, pretending to look for something specific.

“Are you looking for something?” She said. Shit, Armin thought. He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“Oh. Yea,” He quickly looked at the names of authors in this section, spotting A Tale of Two Cities. Dickens.

“Dostoevsky,” he said finally, the first “D” author that came to mind.

“Ha,” she said, “Are you a ‘the ends justify the means’ kinda guy?” He didn’t suppose he was. Armin thought about it for a moment. He had never read Crime and Punishment, or any Dostoevsky for that matter.

“No,” he said.

“You might not like it then.” she replied. Armin didn’t see how that alone could dictate whether he would like it or not, but he didn’t say this.

“Dostoevsky’s over there,” she added, nodding over to a section of books a few feet away, “they say you have to read it in Russian though. The mother language.”

“Thanks.” Armin said and walked over, looking down at the books she referenced. They were all thickly spined, even for Armin. Now he’d be returning home with a thousand page book he had no intention of reading, and no new friend. This thought startled him, because he hadn’t even realized he had approached in order to befriend her in the first place.

“I think I’ve seen you before,” he started, “I live on Keswick,”

“I know. I see you get on your bike sometimes.” she said, stepping forward to invade the awkward distance between them. “Your hair,” she said, gesturing above her head, “it looks funny with the helmet.” Armin thought to never wear the helmet again. He’d already hated its clunkiness, and huffed and puffed when his grandfather forced him to wear it. He’d never seen the neighborhood kids with bike helmets strapped onto them like life preserves, yet he wore it anyway, not wanting to bring his grandfather any grief.

“Oh” He said, touching a wisp of hair that hung sadly next to his cheek. He pulled on it slightly, feeling a string of self consciousness tug in his stomach.

“I like it, though. It’s sort of medieval.” she added.

“Thanks, I think. I’m Armin. I just moved here.” “I figured just as much. Carla wanted to make you something when she saw the trucks hauling furniture in. I don’t think she ever got around to it, though.” she said. Armin didn’t know who Carla was, but didn’t feel like asking.

“I’m Mikasa, by the way. Ackerman.” She added.

“Armin,” he said in response, “Armin Arlert.”

“So you’ve mentioned. So are you going to get a book, Armin Arlert? Or did you come over just to make my acquaintance.”

“Oh. Right.” Armin reached for one of the books with Dostoevsky written in tiny, slanted letters. It felt like a brick in his hands. He looked outside and noticed that the day’s blue had begun to darken, allowing the moon to peak out in all its bare, whiteness. It would be dark soon.

“I have to go. Thanks for the book” said Armin, tapping it lightly against his palm. He left the library after checking out and mounted his bike, Dostoevsky sitting in his basket like a weight.

When he got home, he sat with it on the table next to him, flushed by the homey illumination of a lamp. His grandfather walked in without Armin realizing (he had a habit of doing that. His time in the military gifted him the ability to walk soundlessly with heavy gear, lacking even the most minimal of noise) and peered over his glasses at the book, tipping it upwards to read the title.

“War and Peace?” his grandfather said. Armin hummed in response.

“You know, they say you have to read it in Russian. To understand it in its fullest.”

“I think I heard that somewhere.” Armin replied.

**Author's Note:**

> DJENDECBCEDEU!! this is more-or-less my first time attempting fanfic (I've done some original creative writing but nothing serious) so I hope its tolerable. Sorry for mentioning a certain Russian novelist so many times. Hopefully it wasn't *too* pretentious. Anyways, feedback is always welcomed and appreciated. ALSO if you couldn't tell, the plot is roughly based on We Are Who We Are HA. Hopefully I'll update sooner than later. Have the loveliest of days if you're still reading this.


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